Distraction

Chapter Eight

Libby perched on the herb garden wall, waiting for Robbie. All that stood between her and a job at Low Wood Farm was a quick riding test. A formality, Andrea had said. Crikey, that woman could wither roses with a disdainful glare, but after thirty minutes grilling Libby, Andrea finally defrosted and even managed a smile before she went to fetch Robbie.  

Libby had never wanted a job so badly. Low Wood Farm was a dream with its whitewashed farmhouse, cobbled yard and tidy stables. Horses and Herdwick sheep grazed in the fields while chickens pecked at fallen pony nuts. Maybe one day, she'd have a place just like it. 

The kitchen door opened and Libby fought a smile. Had Robbie worked out it was her already? He came out, studying at her CV, but when he looked up, he stopped. For a moment, he simply stared at her. Okay, obviously he hadn't known she was Olivia Wilde. 

'No,' he snapped.  

What the hell? She stood up, placing her hands on her hips. 'I think there are laws about saying yes or no based on what someone looks like.' 

He looked her over, giving a derisory laugh. What was wrong with her? She wore a sensible pink t-shirt with black jodhpurs, her hair in a neat plait. She looked pretty and professional. He hadn't minded her hair or make-up the day before when he kept topping up her glass and pinching her cigarettes. Why did it matter today? 

'You want more reasons?' He held up her CV. 'Olivia Wilde.' 

'Libby's an accepted abbreviation.' 

'St Mary Magdalene's in Wiltshire? Never heard of it and we used to live there.' 

Bugger. 'It's an independent school and Wiltshire's a big place.'  

'You've had five different jobs in the three years since you went to some unnamed university in London, and not one of them had anything to do with your BA in Performing Arts.' He shook his head. 'Even if you didn't have a suspiciously vague CV, you're tiny, too small.'  

'I'm five-five, above average height for a girl in the UK.' She rapped her nails against her hips and raised her chin.  

'You couldn't handle the horses. Can you even carry a bucket of water?' 

'I've been carrying water buckets since I was six and I can handle any horse.' Her cheeks reddened as she looked down at her boots. 'But maybe not working for an arrogant bastard like you.' 

Robbie strode back into the house, slamming the door. Arse.  

Fighting tears, she crossed the yard to collect her bag and riding hat. Sacked before she'd landed the job - that was a new one. Oh why had she called him an arrogant bastard? She crouched down to hug the ancient Labrador goodbye.  

'Well, I buggered that up. I didn't even get to find out your name, mister. Obviously, my run of Good Luck's over. I've got no new job and Zoe's still not speaking to me.' 

The night before, Libby had returned from the Mill, tipsy and stewing in Clara's revelation that Maggie had been a ballerina. The second Zoe walked through the door Libby demanded to know why she hadn't told her.  

'How could you be so insensitive? You must've known I'd find out.' 

'Let it go, Libby. Either go to class or forget it.' 

'I can't forget it.' 

'You need to move on, or you'll end up just like her, miserable, bitter with just a cat for company.'  

'Should I just throw myself down the stairs now?' 

'It's better than living half a life.'  

It had been the worst argument they'd had since Zoe lost Libby's sparkly black leg warmers in Year Nine, but back then, they'd made up before supper. This time they'd gone to bed, slamming doors, still not speaking, and even Hyssop's purring hadn't lulled Libby to sleep. But she knew why Zoe had omitted a key fact about Maggie. There's no way Libby would have moved to the Home for Retired Ballet Dancers.